Well Wishing
by Marauder-In-Disguise
Summary: The journalist was sat facing the door, his legs crossed with one ankle resting on his opposite knee. He didn't look very friendly. "Agent Rossi," he said icily, "It's been a while." Entry for the OC Challenge over on CCOAC
1. Chapter 1

**A/N – My very, very late entry to the OC Challenge. Thanks to ilovetvalot for being patient with me and my sucky exams.**

**Disclaimer – I don't own it, and to be honest if I did the end of season seven wouldn't have been as good as it was. So for once I don't mind that I don't own it.**

_March 9__th__ 1986 _

It had been a terrible day, truly bloody awful. It started raining at eight am and just didn't stop, and Andy had to drag a photographer with an attitude problem all the way to the other side of town for a stupid report about a new restaurant opening, of all the things! As though that counted as news! But the sub-editor had stuck him with it because he once dared to suggest that things like cat shows and new additions to the local economy didn't seem like the sort of thing a newspaper should concern itself with.

Now Andy got all those fun jobs, as well as being landed with the worst people to work with. If he didn't need the job, he'd have been out of there so fast the sub-ed's stupid wig would fall off in the draft. As it happened, Andy had his sights set on the big leagues – _The New York Times_, or _The Washington Post_ – and he knew better than to lose his toehold on the ladder over some disagreement with someone as petty as the sub editor.

Keeping half an eye on the weather so he could try and make a break for it between showers, Andy took a sip of his lukewarm coffee and looked over his notes once more. The only saving grace of the day was that he had ended up stuck with Mario, the half Italian camera jockey who thought he worked for _Vogue_, and the people who owned the restaurant were newly in the US from Bologna and hadn't learned much of the language yet. Mario had been a great help with translating, even if every so often he and the owner's daughter had looked at Andy and smirked, obviously talking about him. He remembered enough Spanish from high school to know what they were saying wasn't too flattering. Luckily, he wasn't much for caring what people thought – it was what made him good at his job, and what was going to push him into that dream job. It was all about patience, and he had crates of the stuff.

The newsroom was fairly chaotic that Friday evening, with all the section editors pushing to get the features for the upcoming week ready to go. From his desk in the corner, Andy had a pretty good view of it all. His piece wasn't due for another week yet, so he had a little breathing space, and he'd definitely had enough for one day. He reached down to his bottom drawer and took from it, at random, one of the books he kept in there. Glancing at the cover, he smiled; a collection of poems by Walt Whitman, cracked at the spine and dog eared from years of use. He had other poetry in there too; John Donne, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Ezra Pound. Just a few, smuggled from home, to keep him sane at moments like this.

He'd barely cracked the Whitman open though when his desk phone rang. Irritated, he snatched it up.

"Andy Hopper, _Evening Post_."

"Are you a reporter?"

"That's what I just said, isn't it?" he snapped, wondering what kind of loon had gotten a hold of his number now.

"I need you to tell people…what I've done," the man practically whispered, his voice cracking, "I need people to know, or I'll kill them."

"I beg your pardon?" Andy asked, astonished, his book falling from his hand, "Who are you going to do what to?"

"They're only babies really," the man rambled, "Four precious angels, none of them older than ten you know, but no one is missing them. You need to tell people or I'll have to kill one to make my point."

And the phone went dead.

The man's voice had been remarkably calm by the end, sounding as though he barely cared if Andy was listening or not. Perhaps he didn't. He was probably just some nut job. They had to deal with a lot of them. But then again, death threats against children were something new. Maybe he should call the cops, just in case.

Feeling somewhat dubious, Andy dug through the disaster zone of his top drawer, rooting out a stack of little used business cards. One was for a local detective he's interviewed a few months before. It couldn't hurt to let the guy know, just in case.

After all, it was the responsible thing to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**For disclaimer see chapter one**

_November 12__th__ 2012_

"Are you sure you're going to be alright without me?" Dave caught Aaron on the way out the Round Table Room, "I can easily call Miranda and-"

His lips twitching as he caught the imploring look in Dave's eyes, Aaron shook his head.

"Dave, we can cope without you for one case. You have an obligation."

"I have an obligation here!" Dave exclaimed, sweeping a vague hand in the direction of the bullpen, where an incredibly amused looking Prentiss was watching them from her desk, "Solving crimes, catching the bad guys. That's my obligation, Aaron."

"Well you should have thought of that before you decided to write a new book, David," Aaron said airily, giving in to the smile as he saw the crestfallen look on his colleague's face, "It's one case. You'll be back before you know it."

"Damn you, Hotchner," Dave muttered darkly, "Call yourself my friend."

He ambled down the slope towards the coffee pot, missing the look that Aaron and Prentiss shared behind his back, and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. He _hated_ press interviews. He'd hated them before, but now that he was working again, he hated them even more. There was something so inane about talking to some journalist, who probably hadn't even read the book, when he knew there were people out there who needed saving. And Aaron was no help at all, with his stupid ideas about honouring commitments and not calling his assistant, Miranda, to say that he couldn't possibly attend all the interviews she had scheduled because the team couldn't possibly cope with a sudden influx of cases without him. Miranda had even acquired Aaron's number, just to make sure that he had absolutely no chance of escape. It was a conspiracy, that's what it was.

"Surely it's not that bad," a voice said behind him, the slight edge that it had suggesting that the owner was trying very hard to laugh at him.

"You can be quiet, Prentiss," he growled, turning to face her, "This is your fault."

"My fault?"

The indignation was well feigned, but Dave knew better.

"Yes, your fault. Whose idea was it for me to write a new book?"

"Well –"

"You should go for it, Rossi," he raised his voice in a poor imitation of her, "It will be good for you, Rossi. Take your mind off things, Rossi."

With a snort, Prentiss reached round for him for her own mug.

"I do not sound like that," she said, "And it was _your_ idea. I just provided gentle encouragement."

"That's what you call it, is it?" he grumbled, but he couldn't keep up the façade for long. He wasn't really annoyed, and they both knew it. Sensing his resignation, she reached out and patted him sympathetically on the arm.

"You'll do fine. It's only the local paper."

"_Only_ the local paper?" Morgan appeared out of nowhere, with Garcia and Reid on his heels, "I don't get interviewed for the local paper."

"That's because you're not famous," Garcia stage whispered, "Only big shots get interviewed, remember?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot," Morgan grinned, eying Dave mischievously, "I think I want to be like Rossi when I grow up."

"Ha ha," Dave said sardonically, "Keep this up and you won't live long enough for that."

"Ignore them, Rossi," Reid interjected, "I think your output is very impressive. Your books are the reason I wanted to join the BAU."

"Thank you, Reid," Dave smiled, "I'm still not getting you an advance copy. You're going to have to wait like everyone else."

"Worth a try, kid," Morgan hooted, stepping backwards so that he was hidden behind Garcia, "These celebrities forget about the little people down here on the ground."

Dave's less than savoury reply was cut off by Hotch calling to them from the door. JJ was already there, go-bag in hand.

"Let's go or I'm leaving you behind," Hotch called.

The younger agents scattered, grabbing bags and hurrying after Hotch and JJ. Only Garcia remained in the break area and she smiled sympathetically.

"Just think. Once you're done you can come back and hang out with me. It'll be just like last year."

She was referring of course to the tumultuous time last year when Hotch and Reid were away and Prentiss was 'dead', when the BAU had consisted of only herself, Rossi, Morgan and JJ. It hadn't been the most enjoyable time for anyone, but she had spent the time, when it was only the two of them in the office, getting to know Rossi much better, and in a way it had been kind of fun.

"I'm looking forward to it already, kitten," he smiled for the first time that morning, draining his cup and putting it in the sink, "Okay. I'm going. I'll be back in time for lunch."

"I'm looking forward to it," she echoed, "Good luck."

**-WELLWISHING-**

At least the hotel was a good one. Miranda could always be relied on for that, booking only the best places for the interviews that she forced him to go to. That wasn't even something he had specified – she had just worked it out for herself, forward thinking person that she was. Said forward thinking person was waiting for him on the steps outside, ignoring the doorman who was staring distastefully at her cigarette and lemon coloured dress. Chuckling, Dave kissed her on the cheek; there was a reason he had chosen her above all the others who applied. He needed someone that didn't give a damn about what people thought. For all his complaining about her, she was brilliant.

"You're late."

"I'm not!" he exclaimed, "I left as soon as I could. Aaron practically threw me out of the door."

"Well, good," she smirked, "I need an ally in kicking your butt."

She waved to the receptionist on the way past – yet another of her ridiculous list of contacts, he supposed – and ushered him towards the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor.

"Mister Hopper has been here for twenty minutes already," she said accusingly, narrowing her eyes at him, "And he seems to have met you before. He said he wasn't surprised you were late. You didn't tell me you knew him."

"I didn't know I did," Dave shrugged, "What's his first name?"

"Andy. Little guy, about your age. Ring a bell?"

"Maybe," Dave furrowed his brow. The name did sound familiar, now that he thought about it, but he had no idea why.

"I guess he's interviewed me before," he said eventually, "There were a lot of them for 'Deviance', especially. I barely slept on that tour."

"My heart bleeds," Miranda smirked, stepping out of the elevator ahead of him and turning to eye him over her shoulder, "Do me a favour and act like you remember. The last thing I need is another journo pissed off at you."

"That was one time," Dave sighed, "Are you ever going to let me forget?"

"Not in the near future."

She threw open the door to a suite and made her way over to a desk where her ever trusty laptop was sat waiting for her. She picked up one of the bottles of water sat next to it and handed it to Dave, reaching up to straighten his collar at the same time.

"You'll do just fine," she said, the bite from her voice gone for a moment. Of all the people in the world, Miranda was perhaps the only one who knew that interviews made Dave nervous. He never even had to tell her. That was something else she just knew.

"Thank you, sweetness," Dave smiled, "Where is he?"

"In the next room. Off you go. Play nice."

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Dave slipped through the door, his best 'meet the public' smile on his face. The journalist was sat facing the door, his legs crossed with one ankle resting on his opposite knee. A notebook and a dictaphone were on the table next to him, but he was ignoring them. His eyes were fixed on the door, and when Dave stepped through, he stood up.

He didn't look very friendly.

"Agent Rossi," he said icily, "It's been a while."

_Ah. _

_Andy Hopper._

_Yeah._

_Dave remembered him all right. _


	3. Chapter 3

**For disclaimer see chapter one.**

_March 9__th__ 1986_

"And you're absolutely sure you've told me everything that the man said, Mister Hopper?" the exhausted looking detective said, flipping through his notebook and running a hand through his hair.

"Yes," Andy replied, "Like I said, he didn't really say much at all."

He'd called the detective, Shane West, straight away following the mysterious phone call and been told to head down to the station to make a report. By the time he had fought his way through the evening traffic and reported in at the desk, it was already way past the time he was due home, and his dark mood had become even darker. He might have taken it out on the detective if he was so inclined, but the guy looked about as well as he felt, so he swallowed his temper and put on as amiable a face as he felt able to. Secretly applauding his own superhuman efforts, Andy remained at Shane's desk and waited for the other man to say something.

"Well thank you for coming so promptly, Mister Hopper. Luckily, we've had no reports of missing children at all, let alone any who fit this age bracket. It's probably a hoax."

"A hoax?" Andy exclaimed, "He sounded pretty damn serious to me!"

"They usually do," Shane sighed, his hand once more straying to hair that looked so messy he had almost certainly been fiddling with it all day, "If you hear anything else, please don't hesitate to come back. Even if it is a hoax, I wouldn't mind having a conversation with this guy."

Andy wasn't exactly convinced by Shane's conclusion, but he had nothing else to offer and he'd had enough of the whole bloody day. The caller was out of his hands now, anyway. He'd done his bit and he could sleep well tonight.

The downtown traffic had eased a little, and his journey home was relatively quick. The house was empty apart from the cat, Tesla, name after his oldest son's hero. The black and white tom wound himself around Andy's legs as soon as he stepped inside, purring so loudly he could feel the vibration on his shin. Normally, Andy and Tesla weren't on the best of terms, but with the rest of the family away visiting the in-laws, Tesla had decided that he and Andy could be friends. It was all about the food, Andy knew, but he was kind of enjoying being able to actually stroke the cat and even to share the couch with him of an evening.

Kicking his shoes off and padding through to the kitchen, Andy fed Tesla first. Normally, Maggie insisted that the family eat before the cat but Andy understood the delicacy of his and Tesla's newfound relationship. Besides, he was getting to do pretty much whatever he wanted and he figured the cat might as well enjoy himself too. That job done, Andy took one of the meals from the icebox and shoved it in the oven. He was actually perfectly capable of cooking for himself, a fact that Maggie well knew, but she also knew how lazy he could be.

"If I leave you alone for a week you'll cook once and spend the rest of the time eating soup from the can," she'd said, spooning casserole into separate dishes, "At least this way, I'll know you're getting at least one good meal a day."

"What would I do without you?" Andy smiled, stealing up behind her and planting a kiss on her cheek, "You're too nice to me."

"I know," she laughed, turning her head to kiss him back, "But I do love you so I suppose it's alright."

Whilst the food was heating up, Andy climbed the stairs wearily to change into a pair of pyjama bottoms and a faded t-shirt. He dumped his clothes on the floor another thing he wasn't allowed to do if Maggie was home and took a moment to look at his reflection on the bedroom mirror. He looked like crap. His dark hair was already going grey around his ears and at his temples and he just knew he'd be as grey as his father was by the time he was forty. Maggie kept telling him that the grey made him look distinguished but he just thought it made him look like an old man. Today his grey-blue eyes were shining with exhaustion and he wiped at them to try and take the sheen away. It didn't work; all that happened was his vision blurred and his reflection looked fuzzy around the edges.

Muttering, Andy tore himself away and went back downstairs to the ultimately more interesting smell of his dinner. Tesla was sat on the dining room table licking his paws when Andy sat down with his meal.

"Get down," Andy said sharply, determined that the stupid creature wouldn't take _all_ the ground he wanted, "Go on!"

Shooting him a reproachful look, Tesla did as he was told and stalked off to into the lounge. For a minute or two Andy wondered if he had damaged their understanding irreparably, but later on when he was settled on the couch flicking idly through the TV channels, Tesla jumped up on his lap and curled himself into a ball. Not one to hard grudges, that cat. Scratching Tesla behind his ears, Andy settled on an old movie with John Wayne that he'd seen before. He liked John Wayne movies they reminded him of his father, who had seen every single one and could practically quote them word for word. Knowing his dad, the old man would be curled up in his arm chair watching this same movie right now. Andy was suddenly tempted to call him, but he decided against it. Richard Hopper was just as likely to be asleep these days, especially at this time.

"I'll call him tomorrow," Andy told Tesla, "Remind me, will you?"

The cat just purred contentedly, and Andy found himself listening to that almost as much as the TV. It was soothing, and he felt his eyes begin to close, and he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew the eleven o'clock news was on and Tesla had disappeared. Reaching for the remote, he stopped when an item on the local news caught his attention.

"-body of a young boy discovered this evening in Jackson Park. The boy is of yet unidentified, but police believe he had only been dead an hour before the dog walkers found him. An investigation has been opened and police have urged anyone who might have any information to call them on-"

Bile rising in his throat, Andy switched off the TV. Could this be related to his mystery phone call? It seemed a hell of a coincidence not to be, and it had happened just as the man promised; Andy didn't tell anyone publically, so a kid died. He hovered by the telephone, trying to decide whether to call Shane or not. In the end he decided not too it was late, and the detective was probably up to his ears in chaos at the discovery and anyway, Andy had nothing new to offer him. He'd wait until tomorrow and see if he had received any new messages at work.

He climbed the stairs and crawled into bed, finding that Tesla had settled himself on Maggie's side. It hadn't taken the cat long to learn where he would be allowed to stay.

The news of the boy in the park played on Andy's mind for a while, but in the end he fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming that it was his father who found the body and he turned to Andy and shook his head and said, "You should have listened, son."

"I did," Andy replied, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth, "I did. I did listen."

"You need to wake up," Richard said, suddenly, "Andrew-"

Andy woke with a start to hear a pounding at the front door and a muffled shout. He glanced at the clock.

_Three am._

_Oh God._

Maggie. The kids. Something had happened. Rolling from the bed he ran downstairs, his heart beating a crazy rhythm in his chest. He wrenched open the door to find two uniformed cops and a guy in a suit on the porch.

"Andrew Hopper?" the guy said, before Andy could open his mouth.

"Yeah," he gasped, "What-"

"Andrew Hopper, you're under arrest for suspected kidnapping and murder. You do not-"

He didn't hear the rest. He just saw the biggest cop take out his handcuffs and snap them over his wrists, whilst the other uniform went inside and got him a sweater and his keys. The guy in the suit didn't say anything else and he hardly moved, his dark eyes fixed on Andy's face the whole time he was being bundled into the back of the SUV parked by the sidewalk. Eventually Andy found his tongue.

"You've got this all wrong. I only reported a phone call, that's all."

"We'll see," said the suit guy, from his spot in the front seat.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N – This chapter is really where the 'T' rating comes in, for implied nastiness towards children. But it really is only implied.**

**For disclaimer see chapter one.**

_2012_

"Andrew Hopper," Dave murmured, eying the other man warily, "I _knew_ I knew that name."

"Agent Rossi," the reporter said stiffly, "It's been a while."

"Sure has," Dave replied, keeping his face and voice neutral. He had to let the other man lead here, and so far he was getting nothing from him, "You're looking well."

He was looking well, that was true at least. Andy was a few inches shorter than Dave, but he held himself so well you'd never know it to look at them. His hair, just greying when they first met, was now completely grey, and he wore a pair of wire rimmed spectacles that he hadn't had before. Apart from that, he had barely changed at all; there were a few wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but not so deep as to have made that much of an impression. He was aging gracefully, that was for certain.

"You look tired," Andy said bluntly.

"I'm always tired," Dave shrugged, making a move to the second chair in the room. For one horrible moment he thought the other man was going to square up to him, but he soon dropped his shoulders and took his own seat. They sat staring at one another for a moment, and still Dave said nothing. He could wait. This was going to be the most interesting interview he'd had for a long time.

"You had no idea who I was when you came in the door, did you?"

"Your name was familiar but I meet a lot of people."

"So do I," Andy said softly, dangerously, "But I guarantee I never forgot you."

"I believe you," Dave leaned back in his chair, "And for what it's worth, I'm going to say right now that I am sorry about what happened."

"Don't say what you don't mean."

"I am. I'm always sorry when I make a mistake."

**-WELLWISHING-**

_1986_

"You've got this all wrong," Andy said again as he was led into an interrogation room, "I want to talk to Shane West. He'll tell you this is all a misunderstanding."

"Shane West is the one who gave the Feds your name," the uniform said as he walked back out of the door, "Now shut up and wait. I doubt they'll keep you waiting long."

He was right about that at least. Andy had barely been alone for three minutes before the guy in the suit strode in, minus his jacket and tie.

"I'm Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi, with the Behavioural Science Unit at Quantico," he announced, "So do you just want to go ahead and confess or is this going to be a long night for both of us?"

Taken aback, Andy could only dumbly shake his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said eventually, "I haven't done anything. Shane West-"

"Told me about you. You come to him to report this phone call even before people know that these kids are missing. You get snappy when he brushes you off and hours later this kid turns up."

"But it wasn't me," Andy said again, "I warned you that the guy said he would kill one if I didn't make it public."

"And by keeping quiet, Detective West did just that. Offenders like you often like to insert themselves into the investigation, did you know that? The first suspects in these cases are always the witnesses."

"Offenders like me?" Andy spat, the words bitter in his mouth, "I'm not an _offender_. I don't have a criminal record."

"That's true," Dave agreed, "And that would make you rare, but not unheard of when it comes to these sorts of crimes. That's the thing with child victims – much less likely to make a complaint."

Child victims. _Oh God. He thinks you're – you're – _

"You have kids don't you, Andrew? I'd hate to haul them in for questioning. You could make it easy on them if –"

"I never hurt my children, and I never hurt anyone else's," Andy whispered, convinced he was going to throw up. He thought of his three beautiful children – Luke, Tyler and his baby Grace – and angry tears rose in his eyes at the thought of doing to them what he was being accused of.

As his tears spilled over, he blinked furiously and caught Agent Rossi looking at him with – was it pity? No, not pity, because his face was set and his eyes cold. Revulsion then? Possibly.

"I told Shane everything I knew," he repeated, "And then I went home. I heard about that poor boy on the news and decided I would come back tomorrow. I'm sorry I can't help you but I don't know anything."

"There's one thing the news didn't mention," Dave said, finally pulling out his own chair and sitting down. He had a file which he opened, and pulled out a piece of paper wrapped in plastic, "This is a note found on the body."

Andy took it clumsily, his hands still cuffed together. It didn't make for fun reading. The handwriting was a scrawl, the ink spotting where the pen had been pressed too hard to the page. Even through the plastic Andy could feel the impression of the angry words on the back of the paper.

_I told you what I would do and still you do nothing. This boy didn't have to die. None of the others have to die either but you already know the conditions of that bargain. I hope this body is proof I am pretty damn serious about this._

The note was unsigned.

"Pretty damn serious," Dave drew the words out, "Sound familiar? Detective West thought it did."

"That's what you're basing this on?" Andy exclaimed, throwing the note down, "A throwaway comment I made as I was walking out the door?"

"I make my living from throwaway comments, Andrew," Dave said, "Throwaway comments and things that other people don't notice. And I don't believe in coincidences."

With that, he swept up the note and the file and left the room. Andy was left alone for an hour, but it felt like so much longer. He was seething with anger, anger he had rarely felt before, and he paced the tiny room for the entire time. They were trying to pin him with this horrible, terrible, gut wrenching crime and if he didn't confess they were going to drag Luke and Tyler in for questioning. His boys, his pride and joy, who they thought he had done – sickening – things to. He wasn't entirely sure of the time, but he could just imagine Maggie getting up to feed the baby right about now. Would there be a knock at the door, an anonymous face telling her that he had been arrested and they needed the boys to come and talk to the FBI? They'd be so confused; Luke was ten, way too smart for his own good, but he wouldn't know what was going on any more than seven year old Tyler would. They were just babies really.

And what the hell were his in-laws going to think? He had a good relationship with them, one he had put the time into building up. All that effort was going to crumble around his ears when they heard about this.

And Maggie.

He didn't want to think about Maggie.

Instead he paced and paced and paced and the more he paced the angrier he got, so by the time Agent Rossi came back he was just about ready to snap.

"Been restless?" Agent Rossi said mildly, resuming his seat once more, "I can get you out of here. You know what to do."

"I – haven't – done – anything – wrong," Andy growled through gritted teeth, "I have nothing to be sorry about except reporting that stupid phone call in the first place."

David Rossi opened his mouth to answer, but Andy never heard what he had to say in reply to that, because the door to the room flew open and a wide eyed uniform burst in, his young face shining with perspiration. He wouldn't look at Andrew.

"Agent Rossi, sir, we've – we've got him. One of the patrols caught him red-handed, sir. He's said he'll only – only confess to the FBI. We need to know where the other kids are, sir."

There was a beat of silence. Rossi's eyes flickered between the young officer and Andy's face, and then he got slowly to his feet.

"Did you find him before the kid-?"

"No, sir," the officer said sadly, "We were too late to save her."

Rossi's shoulders dropped slightly at the news, and then he growled under his breath and swept from the room without a word to Andy. The uniform scurried after him.

Slumped bonelessly in the chair, his cuffed hands resting on his head, Andy cried a few more of those angry tears that had been threating to overwhelm him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N – And here's the last chapter! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and alerted – it means a lot, as always!**

**For disclaimer see chapter one.**

"You never came back," Andy said, his eyes fixed on the dictaphone that he had picked up, turning it over and over in his hands as though the motion was soothing somehow. Maybe he was just keeping his hands busy so he didn't end up punching Dave. That was both reassuring and worrying to say the least.

"By the time I was done with that bastard you'd been released," Dave said, "I thought about getting in touch with you but I figured I would be the last person you wanted to see anyway."

"Well you got that right," Andy nodded, the familiar bite of anger boiling in his stomach. It had dulled with time, but it was still there, still something he couldn't quite be rid of, "But I wanted an apology."

"In those types of cases, time is really of the essence," Dave offered tentatively, holding up his hands when Andy opened his mouth, "I'm not making excuses. I just want you to understand what I was thinking."

"As much as it might surprise you, I do understand. I get the pressure. I'd want to save those kids too. But once it was over, once the pressure was off, I was left all alone. People talk. It didn't matter you found the guy, it mattered _I'd_ been accused at all. We had to move. I managed to keep my job but my boys couldn't have friends over for ages because none of them would come. You did that to me, Agent Rossi. You made me into the monster that you thought I was."

Surprisingly, despite the pain of the memories he was recalling, Andy seemed to be the calmest he had been since Dave walked into the room. Resigned, but resigned was the wrong word because Dave could still see a shadow of anger on his face. At peace? Strange, but that seemed more like it. At peace with the hurt he had been nursing about the whole ordeal.

"I'll say it again, for all the good it will do. I really am sorry. Sometimes we get it wrong."

"I realise that. It took me a long time, but I finally realised it. But I hated you. I hated you for so long I thought I'd never feel anything else."

"I don't blame you."

"I used to think about it a lot. My wife lets me ramble on about it and I think I must have talked myself out of it, eventually. We were young. Young men make mistakes. You did. I said some things I regret."

Andy stood up suddenly and took the short stride to Dave's chair, pulling himself up to his full height and looking at the other man over the top of his glasses, "But life goes on and I don't hate you anymore. I knew when my editor said that he needed someone to interview you that it had to be me. I had to see you."

And, much to Dave's surprise, he stuck out his hand, "I came to tell you that I forgive you."

Getting to his feet, Dave took it in his own. The handshake was firm, professional, surprisingly powerful – this reporter, this little guy who had been so badly wronged, shook hands like Aaron and that surprised Dave because very few people he knew could shake hands like Aaron Hotchner.

"I'm grateful for your forgiveness, Andy," he said sincerely, "I think you're a bigger man than me."

"Not necessarily," the reporter said, backing away and taking up his seat again, "I just had time to think, that's all."

The interview that followed was short, to the point, as professional an interview as Dave had ever sat through, and he didn't quite know how to react to the fact that this reporter, of all of them he had ever dealt with, had actually read the book. Despite the professionalism though, he could tell Andy was eager to leave, his most difficult task over, and he couldn't blame him; he was feeling pretty drained by the whole thing himself, and he was glad for the first time that day that he wasn't going straight back to a case at Quantico.

"Take care of yourself, Andy," Dave said at the end, when they were shaking hands again, "It was good to talk to you. I'm glad you're doing alright."

"Thanks," he said, nodding curtly, "Good luck with the book and everything else, David. I'm sure it will be another hit."

Miranda had come into the room at the end to thank Andy herself, and Dave wondered if she had noticed the strange atmosphere between them. If she did, she didn't say anything, but then she never tended to when she knew Dave was thinking. She just hugged him a little tighter on the steps outside of the hotel before they went their separate ways and promised to give him a day or two off from the interviews.

It was lunchtime at Quantico when Dave got back, and the bullpen was blessedly quiet because of it. Garcia was already in the break area waiting for him with her own lunch and both their mugs filled with coffee.

"The team has landed in Philly, sir," she said as he sat down and took a long draft from his mug, "Hotch said that he'll call you when they've set up and you can conference call for a while. If you want you can come do it in my office, then we don't need to be on separate phones all the time."

"That's great," Dave said distractedly. When it had been just the two of them in the office last year he had quite often taken his own work to her cave and set up camp there. He'd be glad of it today – he didn't really feel like being alone in his own office. Andy Hopper had given him too much to think about.

His distraction must have showed on his face because although Miranda might not have said anything, Garcia had never been quiet if she thought something was wrong.

"Are you alright, Rossi? Did your interview go badly?"

"Actually, it went really well," Dave mused, biting into a slice of apple, "Too well. Much better than I deserved anyway."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing lately," he smirked, "I just had a stark reminder of how much of an ass I could be when I was younger."

"Why? Did you know the guy or something?"

"Not at all," he said, "I thought I did, once. I was wrong."

**You will know that forgiveness has begun when you recall those who hurt you and feel the power to wish them well.**

**-Lewis B Smedes-**


End file.
